Death's Diamond
by Erica Wattson
Summary: Katniss saved Prim from certain death in the 74th Hunger Games, but when the rules don't change and Peeta is dead, she is left only with a diamond of him. Will that be enough to save herself? Hints of Katniss/Peeta. Oneshot. T for morbidity.


Summary: Katniss saved Prim from certain death in the 74th Hunger Games, but when the rules don't change and Peeta is dead, there is no one there to truly save Katniss from herself.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games, nor its characters.

Goal: I wanted to answer for myself, what would happen to Katniss if the rules never change and Peeta dies in the arena of their first Hunger Games. I see Katniss, without Peeta losing herself, much as she does for a large portion of _Mockingjay_.

I hope you enjoy, and please review with any comments, be they negative, or positive, that you have.

Thank you.

Death's Diamond

* * *

"It was real. For him, you know."

_Love._ I couldn't quite look Haymitch in the eye. I'm so conflicted, I have no idea how I'm going to regain some semblance of composure before Effie pushes me on-stage with Ceasar Flickerman. And President Snow. There will be the final interview, and the coronation, for me, the victor. I see now, with more clarity, what Peeta meant when he said he didn't want them to change him. I'm standing here, but I think I died.

I think I've been dead for a couple of weeks now- ever since Prim's name was drawn from the bowl.

"It doesn't matter." I manage to mumble. Haymitch replies with a grunt, and a squeeze of my hand. He can't refute me- it's true, because he's dead. He died in the arena, just like the other 22 young men and women- some of which may already be underground. I never payed attention to how that works, with the timing of games and last rites. I'm so glad I didn't have to be the one to do it, that it was Cato that found my final, fatal arrow in his heart. I don't know how Peeta died, but I know I'll find out soon, it will be unavoidable, when I watch the recaps of the games, with thousands of eyes watching me.

Days of rain followed, appropriately, after I buried Rue in flowers and the hovercraft arrived to take her away. I had broken down and wept- openly for quite some time. I suppose it might be lucky that no one found me in that vulnerable state. I was such an easy target. I wanted so much to spend my last time with a friend, and a part of me wanted to go find Peeta, but I didn't I was afraid that if I found him and we formed an alliance, it would come down to him and me, and I'm not sure I could have finished him off. I'm glad I'll never have to know.

"Katniss, sweetheart-"

"It's time! It's time! Oh isn't this exciting! You, a victor! Finally, maybe I'll get promoted to a better district!" Effie is every bit as bubbly as ever. She has no concept of the travesty that just took place.

I find myself sitting in a chair across from Ceasar Flickerman, and he's still sporting his signature blue suit. I appreciate the draping, one-shoulder soft yellow, gloor-length gown Cinna dressed me it. Yellow, by some lores, is a mourning color. I wonder what Peeta would be wearing if he was sitting in this chair instead of me. Probably not yellow- it would have clashed with his golden hair. His blue eyes though, would have been perfect with this yellow color. His blue eyes will never see it.

Suddenly, I desperately need to be home in time for his funeral, or rather, his funeral needs to wait for me.

Now I have to concentrate on calming the stinging sensation in my own eyes and pay attention to the interview. The applause at my mere presence is quieting down. I feel like this is all a lie- that I should be so insignificant, but here I am with the entire country required to watch me now.

"So Katniss, how does it feel, knowing you kept your promise to your sister?"

My response is genuine, but I feel empty saying it:

"Oh it's wonderful! I'm glad she'll be so happy to have me home, and we'll all have a better life for it."

Haymitch had reminded me the capitol people see the victors' prizes to be incredibly generous and desirable. I try to be grateful. I try not to think too much about anything but about playing the vapid girl who spent half her last interview twirling.

I really just want to go home, to the shack in the Seam, and put on my father's leather jacket.

"Tell me, what did you think about your co-tribute, Peeta's confession of love?"

Calculated. Honesty, I remind myself. As the words come out, I'm surprised:

"I was shocked. I had no idea he felt that way, and I didn't believe me. But then he saved my life-twice in the arena, and I knew it was for real" I choke on a sob "And it kills me that we never had a chance for anything."

I don't remember moving, but I'm standing, my hands in fists, and I'm enraged "We never had a chance! So much wasted potential- he and I. There could have been love between us! Love, and a whole new life" I shake my fists out at the crowd. I'm not thinking as one fist becomes a pointed finger, waving out at the audience "Wasted potential- because that's what happens when CHILDREN DIE!"

There is accusation in my eyes. There must be, because for a moment, I feel like I am back inside myself and I know I'm charging these people with reveling in murder. This was not the thing I was supposed to do.

I am spent, and collapse to my knees, regretting toughing the floor with the light, fragile material. Flickerman gets over his moment of shock smoothly, and stands up from his chair, approaching me. He knows I can't regain myself after that, though it was only two questions.

"Yes, it is always a difficult reminder of war, Ms. Katniss. I think my heart is with all of Panem in aching for you star-crossed lovers, never meant to be." He gives me a hand, and guides me back to the chair. He holds his hands out, palms facing the crowd, "We must always remember these tributes! We will never forget these games!"

The crowd roars in satisfaction. I hope I haven't brought any severe trouble upon myself, or on my family for that little incident. On live national broadcast.

Flickerman returns to his seat and suggests that we all watch the recaps with reverence. It starts, of course, with clips from each reaping, the tribute parade, and a rundown of the scores. Then the next several minutes are devoted just to the first day- the initial bloodbath. I'm not in that part much. It does show, in full, the bit on that first morning, with the girl and the fire, with me in the tree. The careers called Peeta "loverboy" frequently. Peeta looked irritated, but I know better now. He really was trying to save me, even then. I watch myself go through the fire and wince as I remember the burns on my hands and leg, burns for which I should have scars, scars that have been erased. I hate that. All my scars must be remembered now.

I'm surrounded by a thousand people, but I feel so alone. Haymitch may be able to relate, but he can't understand exactly this.

Then there are the tracker-jackers. I see the sword stab Peeta's leg, and I watch death after death between that wound and his end. Rue, the District One boy. I see Foxface do the unthinkable, when she eats nightlock berries. The look on her face when she does makes me think she knew what she was doing. I didn't realize Peeta had lived this long. Finally, the broadcast cuts to Peeta, lying in a mudbank, partially disguised, with dirt caked on his face, and dried, rounded chunks of it lying on his lap, and I realize they must have fallen off. I see him shiver violently, and he has lines of color streaking his visible skin.

Blood poisoning.

He shudders again, smiling, and then he doesn't. The cannon goes off.

My blood turns cold, and I'm petrified there in my seat. He suffered for days! He was so much stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Then again, not even his mother thought he was a survivor. Like me.

I promised myself I wouldn't, but I feel like going hysterical. My vision goes blurry and I settle my head on my hands, my elbows resting on my knees. I'm gasping for air, and I know this is wrong, this is so wrong. I didn't deserve life, not over him. He was just so _good_. I try to remember how to wipe my face of emotion again, but it's so different now than it was at the reaping.

I miss Cato killing Thresh, but I do pull myself together in time to see Cato and myself atop the cornucopia, chased by those muttations. I can almost feel it when I pull back that bowstring and shoot him in the chest, sending him toppling backwards to have his body devoured by the ungodly atrocities of nature. I see myself collapse and pull myself back up as Seneca Crane announces me as victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games.

The audience applauds again, and then there's President Snow, smiling, holding the golden crown in his hand. He crowns me sole victor of the games and gives me a half-hug, using his free hand to wave pleasantly to the crowd.

I feel like throwing up. It could be the foul stench of blood and roses exuding from the body next to me, but I'm not sure. I'm sick of myself. I know I should not be here. I'm dead- I was supposed to die.

A small part of me says "Prim," and that part ushers me through the rest of my time in the capitol. I'm reminded that I'll be back again in half a year for the Victory Tour. There is no part of me that can look forward to that.

On the train, Haymitch gives me an apologetic hug, and tells me if I need anything, that I'll know where to find him. He tips his glass to me, spilling a little of the red wine on the light, lush carpet. He's obviously drinking again. I can't blame him one bit for it either.

I suppose I have a couple of things to look forward to- things that remind me I am alive. First, there's moving into Victor's Village with Prim and Mother, who I've decided to forgive. I understand better now, what she's been through.

Then there's the funeral, one week away. The capitol has ways to restore the body somewhat, and to preserve it until it's ready for the funeral rites. I realize I don't know if the Mellark family buries, or burns their bodies. I'm not sure which one I'd have preferred. Either way, it doesn't change the fact that he is gone.

Sleep in the new house is interrupted by screaming, but it takes a few days for me to wake up, realizing they're my own cries. The first couple of nights, I woke to Prim and Mother by my side, but after a visit from Haymitch, they relented, for the sake of their own sleep. Apparently, screaming is quite common among victors, and he claims either it'll go away on its own, or it won't. Mother does give me tea, and keeps some hot in a flask by my bedside all night so I don't go hoarse. Gale has come to see me every day, but I can't find words to say to him. He was right about some things, about the capitol, and he's very glad that I won. The trouble is- and I can't express it to anyone- but I haven't come back.

I'm empty.

Cinna sent along a black mourning dress with me, which I put on for the first time the funeral day of Peeta Mellark.

My eyes are completely dry, and they hurt and burn as if they'd nearly been sucked out of their sockets. My mother does some simple makup on my face, but I make her stop after lipstick and eyeshadow. Blush is for brides, after all. It would be a sick perversion for me to wear any of _that_ today, though I can't even formulate to myself why exactly- but I suppose it's because somewhere, underneath I wanted us to have a chance. I wanted to repay the boy with the bread with the something he had hungered for nearly his whole life- me.

Beyond my vacant face, I can see the future that could have been, had we survived, somehow happiness and green grass, with the scent of fresh-baked bread and sugar flowers. Love and Life. I never wanted them, but in this utopia I'm divining in the clean part of my imagination, they exist. A small boy, and little girl play on the lawn, their blonde hair glistening angelically in the sunshine and Prim walks by, giving them flowers which they smell. I feel strong arms around my waist, and it's Peeta, sweeping me off my feet. He takes my hand and I physically shudder with anticipation as he bows me back to kiss me deeply, a smile on his face.

Peeta died with a smile on his face.

I wonder why, and though it may have been an unconscious reaction, I can't help but speculate that perhaps, he was glad I was still alive.

It's better for him not to know what has become of me now.

I feel ridiculous for wanting to love him. I did not know this boy- he had never even told me his favorite color.

There is an open casket, so I guess the capitol people really were able to work their magic on his flesh. As I approach his body, with Haymitch in front of me, Prim right behind, I feel nothing of his warmth and generosity. Closer still, I don't smell fresh-baked bread. It smells like a nothing that is cleaner than nothing- sterile. I see his feet, and I touch the rim of the plain, wooden casket. My eyes wander up his unnaturally still form until they see his face. I grasp both sides of it and hold his forehead to mine. It is smooth, cold and heavy, and he wears no smile now. Haymitch and Prim at least out of the crowd are watching me, but I am lost to them.

Desperately, I press my lips on his, leaving an imprint of my red lipstick on his.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I had hoped, beyond reason, for something. Maybe I thought he would kiss me back, and my debt would be replayed, or perhaps I imagined he would wake up from his deathly sleep. I am in despair now.

Lost for anything more to do, I reexamine his features. His skin looks like it is heavily covered in makeup. This is not the same boy that threw me bread, and told the whole of Panem he loved me. I realize that now in his leaden dullness. They gave back his body, but this is not him.

Just like they sent back my body, flesh, bone and sinew. Still sentient, but not the same. Katniss Everdeen is all but dead.

I find out they are cremating the body, burning him, just like the bread he burnt to keep me alive. Mr. Mellark, the baker says they are sending some of the ashes to another district and turning him into a diamond. This makes me smile, remembering Effie's words that we were pieces of coal being pressed into pearls. At least this would be closer to the truth. He says he wants me to have that diamond, tells me that it's what Peeta would have wanted. It seems to me that his family should have him, but his mother didn't want him when he was alive anyway. Why should she have him in death?

I don't know. I didn't know him, and I failed to love him when it mattered at all. All I can do is lose myself the place of my imagination where I love him. So, I wait.

This diamond is the last thing I have to look forward to.

They are taking Peeta's body and making it into something beautiful. It's not him, but it will be strong, like he was, and there's one tremmor of hope with that- maybe this empty shell_ I_ live in now, could, under the right pressures, transform into something strong and beautiful too.

It comes on the train with a shipment of tesserae- a diamond pendant, mounted on a silver chain. Haymitch sees the Peacekeepers bring it to me in a long, rectangular box. Again, I am wearing the black mourning dress. I suppose it makes a striking picture, when one of the white-clad Peacekeepers offers to fasten the clasp around my neck, but Haymitch interrupts and does it himself.

Now I have that last piece of Peeta near my heart, where he'll stay until my own stops for good. The remains of these two children, wasted potentials, lost futures, here together.

I wonder if they knew when they gave us that nickname, what fate dictates of Star-Crossed Lovers- they die.


End file.
